


Toss a Coin to Your Auror

by toesalignedarch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Bodyguard, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Inspired by The Witcher, Kinda, M/M, Mild Smut, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, although it's really a fade to black smut, harry's just along for the ride, malfoy's got a long list of ex-lovers, public... heavy petting?, specifically the episode where jaskier gets geralt to be his bodyguard, the netflix show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25036834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesalignedarch/pseuds/toesalignedarch
Summary: Impulse control has never been one of Harry's strengths."All right," he says. He tries to justify his decision with a slew of excuses: it can't possibly be that bad, he's doing this for a friend—werethey friends?—it'll be fun to have Malfoy owe him one, it's just one night of bodyguarding his favorite rival in the world, what could possibly go wrong—but they all quiet down when Malfoy flashes him a smile. A genuine, truly happy smile. It's gone almost as soon as Harry sees it, but it's branded into his memory.(or, Harry ends up protecting Draco from his many incensed ex-lovers at the St. Mungo's Charity Ball, and shenanigans ensue)inspired by the following exchange from s1e4 of The Witcher on netflix:“how many of these lords want to kill you?"“hard to say. one stops keeping count after a while.”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 293





	Toss a Coin to Your Auror

**Author's Note:**

> my first harry potter fic, what's up!!
> 
> and yes, I know season 1 of the witcher came out 7 months ago; I started writing this fic 6 months ago, forgot about it, and picked it back up yesterday so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> (consistent writing habits, whomst?)

Harry doesn’t mean to save Malfoy from an uncomfortable situation.

No really—he’s put that savior life behind him, no matter how much Ron and Hermione would like to disagree. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s not like he did it on purpose; all he did was walk into a room full of high ranking Ministry officials, and just as he notices a particularly uptight Malfoy with a cold smile and dagger-throwing eyes being verbally accosted by someone in murky green robes, he hears his name from across the room. 

Everyone else hears his name too, and out of the corner of his eye Harry sees the wizard in murky green robes turn and stare at him, giving Malfoy just enough time to slip away. Before he does though, his gray eyes slide over to Harry’s and Malfoy gives him the slightest nod before disappearing into the crowd of black cloaks around the edge of the room. 

“Auror Potter,” he hears Kingsley call again, and he focuses on the task at hand. Right.

Harry crosses the room, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. He sighs inwardly; it’s been nearly five years since the war and despite Hermione explaining to him over and over that people were still going to treat him like a hero, he doesn’t understand it. Whenever someone brings up what he did, he politely points out that he was only seventeen at the time, and shouldn’t have had to do what he did—he always takes a small bit of pride as the other person’s smile sours. But he can’t exactly point that out to an entire room full of high ranking officials, now can he? Instead he puts a professional look on his face and forges onward, to where Kingsley is standing with various directors he vaguely recognizes.

“Minister,” he greets when he arrives at Kingsley’s side. The Minister’s dark blue robes are charmed to glisten with faraway stars whenever he moves, and Harry witnesses the sight firsthand when Kingsley raises an arm to shake his hand. All around him, conversations resume and the directors step away to give them some privacy, though some of the nosier ones stay in eyeshot. 

“Apologies for calling you away from your work, Auror Potter,” Kingsley says. Harry wants to tell him it’s no problem, he wasn’t really doing his work anyway (unless you count enchanting folded parchment animals to parade around your desk), but decides to keep that bit to himself. “But I believe that your Head of Department informed you of several appearances we’d like for you to make over the next fortnight?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry confirms, and he has to remind himself to keep a smile plastered on his face.

“Splendid.” Kingsley leans in and Harry mirrors his movements. “Really, Harry, thank you. It will mean a lot to our community to see and hear from you in person, not just from articles in the Prophet.”

“It’s an honor,” Harry lies through his teeth, and Kingsley is kind enough not to say anything. 

He feels everyone’s eyes on him as he crosses the room to leave, and only when he’s three steps from the door does he let an annoyed scowl slide onto his face. Harry can hear Hermione’s voice in his ear, chastising him for being ungrateful that he has the opportunity to use his platform to speak up against injustices, but Harry only grits his teeth harder. He’s been doing that his whole life, hasn’t he? Harry pushes through the door and lets it slam closed behind him. The resounding bang is louder than he expects and he winces, but doesn’t turn around to apologize. 

The secretary at the end of the hallway gives him a bright smile, which he returns with what he hopes isn’t as grimace-like as it feels, and grabs a pinch of Floo powder from the urn beside the fireplace. “Auror Department,” he declares before stepping into the flames.

Ron is at his side as soon as he steps onto the familiar rug in front of the Auror Department’s non-emergency fireplace.

“What was that all about, mate?” he asks, falling into step with Harry as he heads back to his office.

“Another glory tour,” he tells Ron sourly.

“Another?” Ron asks in disbelief, and Harry feels a little better knowing that at least Ron is on his side. “Blimey, they’ve got you going on a dozen a month, how’re you supposed to have time to do your actual job?”

“Dunno,” Harry grumbles. He pulls out his wand and waves it at the locked door of the office he shares with Ron and steps inside once the door swings open. Ron returns to his desk across the room while Harry collapses into his chair. He watches a folded parchment elephant lumber across a stack of case files, trampling a parchment frog in its haste.

“What’s Kingsley want you to do this time?” 

“I don’t even know,” Harry laments. “Twinings told me the other day but I was hardly paying any attention. Suppose it’s the same as always, just wave at the crowd and read something off the prompter.”

Ron clicks his tongue in sympathy. “Sorry mate,” he says, digging around his cluttered desk for a quill. When he finds one, he scribbles something onto a piece of parchment and, with a flourish of his wand, it folds itself into a bird and flies through the open door.

“For once in my life I’d like to do something because I want to, not because someone else told me to. Is that too much to ask?”

“You mean like, all the shit we got up to at Hogwarts?” Ron grins and Harry can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face. “I hardly recall Dumbledore telling you to take your cloak and sneak into Hogsmeade.”

“Shut up, you git,” Harry says but his mood is significantly lighter now. “No, I just mean, like… I’m the Boy Who Lived, aren’t I? No matter what people are going to recognize me and they’re going to listen to what I have to say. I’m being fed all these speeches from Kingsley and whoever else, but… I dunno, I want to control how my image is used, if that makes sense. Just once.”

Ron frowns, tapping his quill—the wrong end; the splotch of ink is growing and Harry can’t bring himself to tell him—against his chin. “You mean like taking on sponsorships? Or collaborations?”

“Maybe,” Harry says, but those don’t feel quite right. He’s suddenly annoyed again when he can’t come up with the right words to describe how he feels, and he buries himself in his paperwork, angrily brushing his paper zoo into the bin. Ron thankfully gets the message and starts scribbling on various forms, only pausing when a neatly folded paper bird soars onto his desk. 

“Who’re you writing?” Harry asks when Ron opens the note and smiles stupidly at it.

“Hermione,” he says, and in retrospect it should’ve been obvious. “We’re going out for lunch today, and she’s just told me where.”

“That’s nice,” Harry says, and Ron knows that tone of voice well enough not to push it. 

It’s not that Harry isn’t happy for his two best friends; he was delighted when they finally announced that they were together and he even told them it was about time. But sometimes he can’t help the empty hole that opens inside of him when Ron and Hermione do the things that he one day hoped to do with someone special—years ago he had wanted that person to be Ginny, and now he was just lost.

“You’ll meet someone, Harry,” Hermione had told him when he first expressed the feeling of loneliness, “you just need to get out there more.” But the only problem was he didn’t want to find a stranger; the few dates he’d gone on had ended rather poorly after the other party admitted their awe at being in the presence of The Harry Potter, and they always admitted that. But he’s happy for his friends, he reminds himself, and so when Ron grabs his cloak to leave, Harry wishes him a restful lunch break and promises that yes, he’ll make sure to eat something later.

A promise which he promptly forgets, and by the time he looks up again it’s been at least an hour and Ron’s probably on his way back. With a groan, Harry gathers his cloak and heads to the cafeteria lest Ron come back and lecture him about the importance of three hearty meals a day. 

As it’s later in the afternoon, the cafeteria is nearly empty when Harry arrives, except for one table in the far corner where a man with shocking blond hair sits with perfect posture as he wandlessly stirs his tea. Harry’s so busy staring at Malfoy that he walks right into a chair, its metal legs screeching against the marble floor. Malfoy looks up, makes eye contact with Harry, and rolls his eyes before returning to his tea. Harry scoffs, though any irritation he might have felt doesn’t rise up in him. 

They’ve been cordial, which is still strange for Harry to think about. He helped the Malfoys during their trial, gladly clearing Narcissa of all charges and—somewhat reluctantly—reducing Lucius’s Azkaban sentence by a few years. Draco Malfoy had gotten off lightly, as he’d been young and Harry, remembering the terror in his eyes that night on the Astronomy tower, had spoken on his behalf. A few days after the trial, he’d received an owl asking if he’d be willing to meet up in person, and after a long discussion with Ron and Hermione in which Ron was convinced Malfoy would ambush him and Hermione urged him to go, he decided that even if Malfoy attacked him, his reflexes were probably faster. Plus, his curiosity got the best of him.

Turns out, Malfoy had only wanted to thank him face to face over a dinner fancier than anything Harry was used to. Even more surprisingly, after the initial tension wore off due to copious amounts of elf-made wine, he’d enjoyed Malfoy’s company. That wasn’t to say the blond would be his first choice of company at the pub, but Malfoy was as sharp-witted as ever and, once everyone around them stopped eavesdropping, revealed a dry sense of humor that made Harry nearly spit out his wine more than once. 

Any other interactions with Malfoy were limited to polite nods and brief conversation while waiting for tea from the cafe in the atrium of the Ministry. The first time Harry saw the mop of blonde hair standing in line he’d nearly tripped over his own feet. Turns out Malfoy had recently been hired in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes as a member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad—“if you spent enough time around Crabbe and Goyle, you’d be good at reversing accidents too,” he once told Harry under his breath—and occupied his days with researching the dangerousness of various rare ingredients. Harry had only been to Level 3 a couple times, mostly to check up on suspects who’d somehow been Obliviated, but he had never once seen Malfoy in any of the AMRS offices.

Of course, Harry sees Malfoy most commonly in the cafeteria, though the blond is usually surrounded by a select few coworkers and friends, one of whom Harry recognizes as former Slytherin Millicent Bullstrode, who sported a badge on her robes indicating she worked for the Floo Network Authority. Now, however, Malfoy is sitting alone and ignoring him (not that he expected a hug, but not even a nod of acknowledgement?), and on top of everything else that’s happened today Harry decides it’s been a bad enough day to warrant eating his favorite treacle tart for lunch.

He’s just about to summon the most recent issue of Seeker Weekly to read over his lunch when the chair across from him is suddenly occupied.

“I know I’m a bit of a social pariah but where’s your posse, Potter?”

“I don’t have a posse, Malfoy,” Harry scowls.

Malfoy scoffs. “Right. That’s why I always see you alone—walking alone, working alone, eating alone… Where’s Weasley gone?”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re worried about his well-being.”

“As if.”

Malfoy takes a sip of his tea and gazes contemplatively into the distance. Harry takes the opportunity to shove a rather large forkful of treacle tart into his mouth and regrets it immediately when crumbs start to rain down onto his robes. He brushes them aside hastily, hoping Malfoy didn’t see.

“To what do I owe this honor, Malfoy?” he asks when he finally swallows enough to speak again. “I don’t remember being your first choice of company for lunch. Or for anything, really.”

Malfoy sets down his tea and rests his elbows on the table, letting his slender fingers steeple in front of him. “I have a proposition for you,” he says matter-of-factly. 

Oh, Harry thinks. This ought to be good.

“My presence is requested at an event with a list of attendees that includes some rather high ranking officials who may harbor ill intent towards me.”

Harry blinks. “You’re being forced to attend this ‘event’ and you’re afraid of getting hexed?” he translates.

Malfoy sighs impatiently. “If that’s how you need to phrase it for your primitive brain to understand it, fine,” he says with an air of grandeur that makes Harry feel rather stupid.

“Fine. So you think you’ll get hexed or cursed when your back is turned. How is that my problem?”

“You didn’t let me finish speaking, Potter. I’m giving you the opportunity to accompany me.”

Harry nearly spits crumbs onto the table. Surely Malfoy is joking… But the longer Harry stares at him, the more certain he is that somehow, Malfoy isn’t joking. Finally, Harry frowns.

“Perfect,” Malfoy says brightly. “With that look on your face no one would dare come after me. Especially not with the illustrious Harry Potter as my escort—”

“Hold on,” Harry interrupts. “I haven’t agreed to this.”

“But you will.” Malfoy leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Harry immediately wants to reject the offer just to wipe the smug look off Malfoy’s face, but before he can decline the blond continues. “You see, Potter, I was raised to be the perfect attendee at these exclusive events, so I’m quite familiar with putting on a mask and performing my duties. Unfortunately for you, your mask is terrible. I wouldn’t even call it a mask. You’re so clearly miserable at all the events the Minister sends you on it’s a miracle that no one has noticed yet. Then again, they’re all usually too busy fawning over you to really care how you feel. Isn’t that right, Potter?”

Harry swallows. He can’t admit it to Malfoy—Malfoy, of all people—but he’s right. And, judging by the smirk that’s growing ever smugger, Malfoy knows he’s right. But Harry won’t back down that easily. “All right,” he says gruffly. “Suppose, hypothetically, that I don’t necessarily enjoy these outings that Kingsley sends me on. So what?”

“So,” Malfoy says conspiratorially as he leans forward again, “I see it as this: I know you’ve still got that savior complex in there somewhere, which means you like saving people. Whether it’s because you actually like doing it or because the moral high ground gets you off is still up for debate, but the fact of the matter is you do. However, as we're considering this hypothetical situation, you like being the hero"—he holds up a hand when Harry opens his mouth to object—"but you don't like doing it on other people's terms."

Harry squirms under Malfoy's intense analysis. How did he know? He's beginning to regret not paying more attention when he was learning Occlumency.

"And thus," Malfoy is saying, so caught up in parsing Harry's previous actions that he's become apparently oblivious to Harry's current discomfort. "We arrive at the grand conclusion that I'm giving you the opportunity to satisfy that savior complex of yours, and do it on your own terms."

He's definitely using Legilimency, Harry thinks, because wasn't it just a few minutes ago he had been hoping for a chance to do something because he wanted to, not because someone else had told him to?

A whole evening with Malfoy at this mysterious event of his. Five years ago Harry would have laughed in his face and left, but now he's not afraid to admit he's at least a little bit curious. It's been so long since he's gotten to attend something as a normal guest and not the guest of honor; plus, he really wants to know who wants to hex Malfoy, why they want to do it, and what it’d take to get in that line.

He looks up from his musings to see Malfoy examining him with a raised brow. "Have you had enough time to think it through that slow brain of yours?" he asks.

Harry purses his lips. "How many of these wizards want to kill you?"

"Hard to say. One stops keeping count after a while." Malfoy is very nonchalant about the prospect of leaving the venue with boils, bat-bogeys, jelly-legs, or whatever else these people might throw at him. Harry is slightly impressed.

"Why?"

"A variety of reasons," Malfoy says airily. He picks up his tea and starts to swirl it around in the cup. "Wives, concubines, mothers, sometimes..."

"What?" Harry knows Malfoy enjoys the fine things in life—only the best food, women, and wine—but to that degree? Merlin. He can only gape at him.

"I'm joking, you nut," Malfoy says with a roll of his eyes. He sets his tea cup back down on its saucer. "What kind of a person do you think I am? I don't break up marriages, the consequences there far outweigh the benefits. No, I always make sure he’s single and I always make sure he’s out the door by morning—none of that sentimental morning after bullshit. I’ve hexed quite a number of them when they wouldn’t leave as requested, as well as some others—usually their relatives, so easily upset they can get—when they bothered me about it in the past. Not something I'm particularly proud of, hitting someone with a Stinging Jinx when his pants are barely half on, but what's done is done."

It takes Harry a moment to process what's been laid down in front of him. “Him?” he echoes rather intelligently.

He sees Malfoy swallow and puff out his chest, posture stiff and tense. "Got a problem with that?" he asks, and despite his cool exterior Harry can tell that his response will have consequences—whether good ones or bad ones all depend on what he says next.

"No," he says, and even Harry’s surprised at how earnest the truth sounds coming from his own mouth. 

Malfoy narrows his eyes at him for a beat before his expression relaxes. "Good. So," he says in a more upbeat tone, "what do you say?"

Impulse control has never been one of Harry's strengths.

"All right," he says. He tries to justify his decision with a slew of excuses: it can't possibly be that bad, he's doing this for a friend— _were_ they friends?—it'll be fun to have Malfoy owe him one, it's just one night of bodyguarding his favorite rival in the world, what could possibly go wrong—but they all quiet down when Malfoy flashes him a smile. A genuine, truly happy smile. It's gone almost as soon as Harry sees it, but it's branded into his memory.

"Lovely," the blond says. With a flick of his wand, he sends the tea zooming back to the cafeteria's counter and rises to his feet. "The St. Mungo's Charity Ball is on—"

"The _what_? The Charity Ball? Oh, bollocks," he moans, because of course it's the Charity Ball, of course it's the one event where the attendees consist of the richest, most influential wizards and witches who all care about status and networking and—he groans as the puzzle clicks in his head. Of course Malfoy wants him there; with Harry as his escort, no wizard in their right mind would dare approach him with their wand drawn. Merlin, what had he gotten himself into?

"The Ball is on Friday," Malfoy iterates loudly over Harry's repeated thumping of his head on the table. "I'll pick you up at seven and we'll Side-Along over."

When Harry lifts his head from the table, Malfoy is already half way across the cafeteria. When the blond hears Harry’s deep sigh of resignation, he turns around and offers an echoey, “don’t be late!” and disappears.

***

Harry is running late.

It’s not his fault—a case he had been stuck on finally made some forward progress thanks to a brilliant insight from Ron (“Hold on, Harry, what if he didn’t leave the scene once we arrived? How many Aurors were dispatched in total and how many returned to the Ministry, do the numbers match up?”) and because they were so excited to have some semblance of movement in the case, Harry dedicated his entire rest of the day to confirming the identities of every Auror who worked that day. He’d gotten all of the pictures of the crime scene from the photographer and spent an hour just figuring out who was who. In the end, he’d put a name to each moving black and white face—except for the figure sulking in the corner, trying to stay out of frame.

It was then, just as he noticed the loner, that someone walks past his office muttering, “I can’t believe they kept me here so late,” and reminds Harry to check his watch.

“Merlin!” he yelps, rising to his feet so quickly that he inadvertently scatters all of the images onto the floor. “Ron, I’ve got to go.”

Ron frowns, looking up from his own pile of papers. “Where to?”

“Charity Ball,” Harry says hurriedly. He waves his wand at the mess and pulls on his cloak.

“The Charity Ball—hold on, but you don’t have to go to that one.”

“Long story,” he says, and runs to the fireplace.

A minute later, he’s back at Grimmauld Place, dusting ash from the pants of his Auror’s uniform and trying to simultaneously shed his official robes. It’s a difficult task, with his flailing hands getting caught in the sleeves, and he only ends up with all of his clothes still on his body, and ash on everything. Harry groans in frustration and Banishes his uniform—he’d go find them later—and is about to run up the stairs when he feels his wards shiver and hears a knock at the door.

“It’s open,” he calls, so overwhelmed with all that he needs to do before Malfoy gets here—need to put on clothes, he thinks as his naked body shivers, need to shower, probably comb my hair—that he fails to notice Malfoy stepping through his front door.

“I sincerely hope you’re not planning on attending the Charity Ball in…that,” comes the haughty drawl.

“Fuck, Malfoy!” Harry whirls around, his hands flying to keep some semblance of modesty. Despite his inner chaos, Harry doesn’t fail to notice that the blond is impeccably dressed in silver dress robes that compliment his eyes nicely.

“I mean,” Malfoy continues, his eyes shamelessly tracking up and down Harry’s exposed body, “I’m not complaining. But I think others might.”

“I—”

“Go on then, Potter,” Malfoy says with a lazy wave of his hand and an equally lazy smirk. “I assume you’re civilized enough to have purchased your dress robes in advance. I’ll just be here.” He perches on the sitting room couch and conjures a magazine to flip through.

“Right,” Harry says, his cheeks ablaze. He chooses to Apparate to his bedroom because the last thing he needs is to give Malfoy a view of his ass while he runs (plus his hands are busy covering other parts of him) and slams the door closed. Through the wood floor he can hear Malfoy chuckle and the flipping of a page. Under other circumstances, he would be mortified but as the scene replays in his mind, Harry can’t help but focus on the glimmer of interest in Malfoy’s eyes when he first turned towards him.

Not the time, he hisses at himself. He grabs his dress robes from his closet—they’re a couple of years old, but he hasn’t worn these in a while so they’ll have to do—and runs his wand over the garment. The wrinkles disappear immediately, leaving smooth green velvet in its place. (He ignores the smoke rising from the seam where he'd waved his wand a bit too vigorously at it). In a few minutes, Harry examines himself in his mirror.

“Looking sharp,” his mirror tells him proudly. Then, dejectedly, “shame there’s nothing we can do about the hair though.”

“It’s as good as it gets,” Harry tries to explain before he realizes he’s arguing with a sentient mirror while Malfoy's waiting—impatiently, judging by the tempo of his shoes tapping against the floor—downstairs.

When he Apparates to the sitting room, Malfoy doesn’t even react. He finishes the sentence he’s on, Banishes the magazine, and opens his mouth to say something (probably something about how Harry was late) when his eyes land on Harry. His mouth closes. Opens again, and closes again.

“What,” Harry says shortly. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with Malfoy’s usual jabs about his appearance, not when he’s moved mountains to get ready so quickly. For Merlin’s sake, he was still in the office just ten minutes ago!

“Nothing,” Malfoy says after a beat. Then, begrudgingly, “it’s a nice robe, Potter.”

Oh.

Harry flushes a bit. “Thanks. So kind of you to say that so enthusiastically.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes at him and offers Harry his elbow. “Shall we?”

The moment Harry touches Malfoy’s elbow, he feels a tugging sensation at the back of his navel and his sight becomes blurred with streaks of warm yellow, a dark blue, and black. He can feel his stomach complaining as his vision becomes incoherent, but before he can even think to throw up, his roaring in his ears disappears.

It's a lovely venue in the countryside. They’ve Apparated on the outskirts of a field surrounded by trees, in the middle of which stands a warmly lit tent. Inside he can see people dancing on a vast dance floor, as well as servers dressed sharply in black and white dress robes, roaming around with platters of food.

Malfoy clears his throat and looks pointedly at his elbow, where Harry is still clinging tightly to his arm.

“Right,” Harry says with a cough. He lets go jerkily and Malfoy huffs a quiet laugh.

“Shall we? We’re already late, since _someone_ can’t read a clock to save his life.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest—honestly, how dare Malfoy insinuate he didn’t know how to read a clock—but the blond is already walking through the grass to the entrance of the tent. With a sigh, Harry follows.

With his long legs, Malfoy reaches the table at the front of the tent first. Harry’s only a few steps behind him, which allows him to overhear the conversation the he’s having with the wizard seated at the table.

“My sincerest apologies,” the man is saying with a sneer. “I’m afraid the name ‘Arsehole’ isn’t on the guest list tonight.”

Malfoy smiles thinly. “Charming as ever, aren’t you? And yet you continue to wonder why I kicked you out my front door the morning after.”

The man’s sneer turns into a snarl. “I’d watch your mouth if I were you,” he growls, rising menacingly to his feet and slamming a finger into Malfoy’s chest. To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy stands his ground; to Harry’s alarm, he can see the man’s wand in his hand, mere inches from the blond.

“You certainly couldn’t stop watching my mouth that night,” Malfoy says in a tauntingly calm tone. It’s like he doesn’t even notice or care that he’s three seconds away from being jinxed.

“You bastard—”

Harry takes the opportunity to step up to the table. “Er, hello,” he says awkwardly.

The man doesn’t look away from Malfoy, but his wand does suddenly disappear back into his sleeve. “Can I help you?” he spits.

“Er, yes, I’d like to be admitted please.”

“Name?”

“Potter. Harry Potter.”

The man jerks like he’s been stung with a Stinging Jinx. He whirls around and stares at Harry, like he can’t believe his eyes. (Although, now that Harry thinks about it, he probably doesn’t—it’s not often the wizarding world sees Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy attending the same event and arriving at the same time). “S-sorry, Mr. Potter, right away,” the man stammers. Harry returns Malfoy’s pointed stare as the man rifles through the sheets of parchment in front of him.

“What,” Harry mouths, narrowing his eyes.

Malfoy merely shakes his head, amused, and diverts his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Potter, but your name isn’t on the list,” the man says apologetically. “I can speak with the host—”

“No need,” Malfoy cuts in sharply. “He’s my guest.”

“Wha—” The man stares, flabbergasted. He turns to Harry. “Is that true?”

Harry heaves a sigh. “Yes, I’m Malfoy’s guest tonight.” He ignores Malfoy’s smirk.

“Right.” The man has stiffened, his hand gripping his quill so tightly that it cracks, splattering ink everywhere. Malfoy snickers under his breath while the man curses and waves his wand over the mess. A moment later, the man offers them a golden wristband each, saying, “you’ll be seated at table seventeen, sirs.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, sliding one of the bands onto his arm. It’s glowing and warm as it rests on his wrist, a golden 17 emblazoned on the delicate metal.

“You’re most welcome, Mr. Potter,” the man says with a tight smile and a nod of his head.

“Thank you kindly,” Malfoy says with a shark-like grin as he takes his band from the man’s hand. Harry notices that he lets his fingers linger on the man’s palm longer than necessary.

The man grits his teeth. “You’re welcome,” he manages, turning so red that Harry’s worried he might burst. Harry grabs Malfoy’s arm and leads him away from the doorman before spells go flying.

When they’re out of earshot, Malfoy lets out a delighted whoop. “The look on his face,” he cries delightedly. “Oh, Merlin, that was priceless. See?” Malfoy punches Harry jovially in the arm. “I told you, Potter, no one would dare touch me with you around.”

“Congratulations,” Harry says distractedly. They’re inside the tent now, and it’s more dazzling than he imagined. It’s actually a bit overwhelming how much gold and white marble is present in the venue; everything glistens and glows in the warm candlelight and the glare of the shining smooth surfaces is making it hard for Harry to see. But he doesn’t need his eyes to realize that people are noticing their arrival—the murmurs start quietly and spread like wildfire.

“Is that—”

“Potter? No way—”

“Harry Potter?”

“What’s Potter doing here, I didn’t realize he was coming!”

“Oh,” he hears one witch squeal vindictively, “Melody is going to be so upset she ditched me at the last second!”

“Come on,” the voice of Malfoy whispers in his ear. “This way.”

The blond leads him to what he presumes is their table, and immediately two servers appear at their side.

“Misters Malfoy and Potter,” they greet with a slight bow. Harry blushes—the way they grouped their names makes it sound like they’re together—but Malfoy merely hands one of the servers his outer robes. Harry hastens to do the same, laying his cloak over the other’s forearm with a smile. The server smiles at him, her eyes bright with awe, and he offers her a quick quirk of his lips in return.

“If you’re done eye-fucking her, I’d like to be seated,” Malfoy drawls.

“What? I’m not—” Harry turns back to the server but she’s already disappeared. “Malfoy! What the hell?”

“Must I remind you that you’re here to make sure I don’t die a horrible death, not to seduce a helpless girl?”

Harry sputters as they settle into their seats. “I wasn’t—I don’t—”

Malfoy rolls his eyes as he rolls up the sleeves of his robes. “No judgement here, Potter,” he says. “Under other circumstances I would be trying to pull myself…” His gray eyes dart around the tent, and Harry notices his gaze linger on a dark-skinned wizard across the room. (He ignores the uncomfortable churning in his stomach). “But you,” Malfoy continues. “You have a job to do.”

“I wasn’t trying to seduce her,” Harry mumbles. He’s keenly aware of the rest of their table eavesdropping on their conversation and doesn’t like it; he’s not usually one to discuss intimate matters out loud.

Malfoy waves his hands dismissively. “Sure, sure,” he says. “Whatever you say, Potter. I’m sure you wouldn’t be out here taking home witches anyway, am I right?”

“Who says I’m limited to witches?” Harry retorts without thinking. His own words register in his brain a second before it does in Malfoy’s, and by the time the blond turns to stare inquisitively at him, he’s got a bright red blush covering his cheeks. “Er…”

He doesn’t like the grin that’s lifting the corners of Malfoy’s lips. He almost looks predatory as he leans closer to Harry, resting his chin in his hands in an innocent gesture. “Oh?” Malfoy murmurs. “Pray tell, is the famous Harry Potter _not straight_?”

“Piss off,” Harry mutters, looking around to see if any of the people at their table had overheard. Based on their relatively not-that-scandalized expressions, he breathes a sigh of relief.

"No, no, you misunderstand. I'm not judging—don't think I've any right to judge, anyway—I'm merely surprised the Daily Prophet hasn't run an exclusive on you and your latest gentleman caller."

Harry starts to argue heatedly—" _I don't have a gentleman caller_ "—when the sound of a fork on glass echoes throughout the tent and their attentions are drawn to the middle of the tent, where a wizard in shimmering golden robes is striding onto the dance floor. Beside him, a witch in a bright pink dress—Harry almost mistakes her for Umbridge, Merlin forbid—points her wand to her throat, whispers “ _Sonorus_ ,” and faces the attendees with an enormous smile.

“Welcome, everyone, to the annual St. Mungo’s Charity Ball,” she calls with a voice magnified to echo around the room. She’s greeted with enthusiastic applause and cheers and she beams at the fanfare. “Thank you, thank you… May I introduce tonight’s distinguished guest”—Harry’s heart leaps to his throat; she wasn’t going to call out his name, was she?—“the Head of Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes…”

The rest of her words are cut off by Harry’s breath of relief. He claps along with everyone else as the golden wizard waves at the crowd, and begins to speak. It’s refreshing, Harry decides, to be on the other side of the spotlight for once. Sure, the partygoers are obsessed with status and networking, but they would be morons to fawn over Harry when the Head of their Department was speaking.

“What a load of dung,” he hears Malfoy mutter under his breath.

“Sorry?”

“He’s making up absolute nonsense,” Malfoy informs him. “I heard him practicing his speech in his office the other day. I liked the other version much better, much more entertaining to hear him swear every time he forgot his lines, which, might I add, was quite often.”

Harry snorts. His stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly enough that Malfoy shoots him a displeased look. “I haven’t eaten all day,” he hisses in defense.

“Dinner will be served soon, so keep it down will you? I brought you along to diffuse tension, not to draw attention.” Malfoy faces the witch and wizard with a politely disinterested expression.

With a sigh, Harry pats his stomach gently. It’s going to be a long night.

***

After dinner is served (and after Harry unclasps the first button of his trousers), the formal portion of the Charity Ball thankfully comes to an end. He relishes in the freedom of being able to stand and move as he wishes, though his happiness is short lived: for with the chance to walk around comes a whole new series of challenges, namely Malfoy’s uncanny ability to run into every person he’s ever offended consecutively.

The first wizard takes one look at Malfoy and turns red. He marches up to him to do Merlin knows what, but is distracted by a passing server carrying slices of chocolate cake. Harry takes that opportunity to drag Malfoy through a crowd of dancers to the opposite side of the tent.

There, they run into the second one: this time a haughty looking witch with electric blue hair who, upon catching sight of Malfoy, smiles toothily, giving them both a top dollar view of her teeth turning into dagger-like fangs. Harry whisks Malfoy away as fast as he can, the blond happily telling him how fun it was to bed a Metamorphmagus. 

Harry gets about twenty minutes of peace, during which he downs two goblets of Firewhiskey and a glass of elf-made wine, before the third ex-lover appears. This one doesn’t look angry, nor does he sneer at Malfoy, but Harry watches uneasily from a distance anyway. The wizard saunters up to Malfoy, who’s leaning against a tent post, and the two start talking in quiet whispers. Harry can see Malfoy’s left eyebrow rise towards his hairline, and the faintest blush dusting his cheeks— _oh_ , Harry drunkenly admits to himself, _that’s hot_. Not really thinking it through, Harry grabs another glass of wine and takes a gulp, just so his hands can have something to do while he watches Malfoy and the wizard interact. 

They’re just talking like two friends, he notes. He can’t really tell how Malfoy’s reacting except for the steadily darkening blush—whether it was from the glass in his hand, the warmth of the tent, or the heat of the wizard’s words Harry wasn’t sure. Wandering closer, Harry strains to make out any bit of the conversation.

“…like last time,” the wizard is purring.

Now that Harry’s nearer, he notices how closely they’re standing. Their hips are practically joined, like the wizard is purposefully pushing Malfoy against the tent post—and Malfoy is letting him. The blond has a smug smirk hanging from his lips as the wizard leans in to whisper something into his ear and even as Harry watches, Malfoy's breath hitches and his pale lips part in a quiet gasp.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on, because even with three and a half drinks in his system Harry can recognize that the wizard isn’t using his mouth to speak anymore. He looks around; thankfully they’re in a rather secluded area of the tent, as nearly everyone else is dancing or mingling in the brighter, better lit parts of the venue. But still, servers are still walking around and the last thing he needs is for Malfoy to end up as the headline of the Daily Prophet—again—under his watch.

Harry grits his teeth. The wizard and Malfoy are practically intertwined, bodies pressed as tightly as possible without shedding their clothes. No, this wouldn’t be good for the Malfoy image at all, and Harry can only imagine the Howler he’d get from Malfoy if he let this end up on the front page. So, with a deep breath to calm himself down, he strolls up to the pair, noting idly that the wizard has a leg pressed between Malfoy’s thighs and that they’re both undulating their hips ever so slightly. Harry blinks hard, and has to remind himself what he’s doing. 

“Malfoy,” he barks, cursing inwardly when his voice cracks.

The wizard stops moving, but doesn’t detach himself. “Who’re you?” the man asks without showing his face.

Harry ignores him. “Malfoy, we should go.”

The wizard lifts his head from where it was tucked into Malfoy’s neck, still not looking at Harry. “You didn’t tell me you came with someone,” he accuses.

With a shrug, Malfoy lifts the wizard off and straightens out his robes. For someone in a rather compromising position two seconds ago, he looks annoyingly put together. The other man, on the other hand, is showcasing swollen red lips and a chest that’s heaving for air.

“Not my fault you’re unobservant,” Malfoy tells him. He pushes off the tent pole and walks towards Harry, who can’t seem to look him in the eyes without replaying the memory of Malfoy’s narrow hips pressing against his own—

“You prick!“ The wizard turns to yell after Malfoy. His eyes land on Harry and widen. “No,” the wizard says with an incredulous laugh. “Potter? You actually came here with Potter? Draco, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Come on,” Malfoy mutters to Harry when he passes. “This won’t be pretty.” Harry follows Malfoy back into the crowd as the whines of the wizard (“what’s he got that I don’t have? I can give you a good time, Draco!”) are lost to the din. 

“You can’t keep it in your pants for one night?” Harry asks him in exasperation as they walk.

“He’s annoying and whiney, but he’s got a quick tongue on him.” Malfoy sends him a sly wink and Harry blushes. He blames the liquor. “Plus,” Malfoy continues. “I’m bored. The Charity Ball is a pitiful excuse for a social calling and I needed a little something to wake me up.”

Harry snorts. “The danger of all your ex-lovers hexing you isn’t enough to keep you awake?”

“I’m rather used to it,” Malfoy says with a grin. Now that they’re out of the crowd again, he gestures grandly at himself in his silver robes with both hands, an obligatory twirl sending his robes spiraling elegantly around his thin frame. “Keeps me in high demand, you know. Everyone’s always looking for a handsome face, regardless of whatever false rumors follow him.”

“A handsome face sums it up,” mutters Harry with a roll of his eyes.

Apparently his sarcasm is lost in the noise because Malfoy stops walking and is suddenly peering at him with narrowed eyes, a surprised but pleased smile on his thin lips. “Potter,” he says slowly, his brows rising. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re hitting on me.”

“What! No,” Harry sputters. “I am not hitting on you—I’m saying you have a handsome face and that’s it!“

“Right.” Malfoy crosses his arms and shifts his weight over one leg, his hip jutting out deliciously. “And how is that not hitting on me?”

Harry groans, dropping his burning face into his hands. “I can’t believe I have to explain sarcasm to you,” he grumbles.

Malfoy smacks him on the shoulder. “Speak up,” he snarks. “I can’t hear you with those giant hands covering your mouth.”

“I said,” Harry over-articulates, straightening and looking Malfoy in the eye. (He realizes too late that it’s a bad idea, but he’s already committed and he’s nothing if not a stubborn Gryffindor to boot). “I can’t believe I have to explain sarcasm to you. I’m calling you a handsome face because that’s all you are.”

“Yes, Potter, we’ve already established that you think I’m handsome—”

Harry clicks his tongue impatiently. “That’s not the point,” he interrupts huffily, but Malfoy only grins wider at his petulance. “I’m trying to say that you’re all charm and no substance—”

“Oh?” Malfoy looks positively gleeful. “You think I’m charming?”

“You seem to have forgotten the words that I said after—”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about those words,” he says airily. “I’m almost speechless that you think I’m handsome and charming. I’m flattered, really, I didn’t think you could pick out someone with good taste even if he were standing naked in front of you.”

His mind is suddenly filled with the image of a completely undressed Malfoy, walking backwards into his bedroom, smirking seductively as Harry can do nothing but follow. Harry coughs into his hand to hide the furious blush that splashes onto his cheeks. “I have good taste,” he protests weakly.

“Clearly, seeing as you’ve told me I’m both handsome and charming.” With a knowing look, the blond glances around the room. They’re situated at the edge of the tent across from where Malfoy had run into his latest ex-lover. The lights shining onto the middle of the dance floor barely touch this part of the venue. Even the servers, ubiquitous as they are, don’t wander this way. 

For all intents and purposes, they’re alone.

The two men come to the same conclusion within seconds of each other, but Malfoy acts first. He takes a step closer to Harry. “I’m bored.”

“Happy to announce to the crowd where you are, so your most recent ex-beau can hex you,” Harry tells him, trying to look anywhere but at the devilish glint in Malfoy’s eyes.

Malfoy leans closer. “I already told you,” he whispers, his warm breath tickling the bridge of Harry’s nose. He smells of Firewhiskey and cologne, and it’s intoxicating. “The threat of hexes don’t do it for me anymore. But there’s something else that will…”

Harry’s about to go cross-eyed trying to keep eye contact with Malfoy as he continues to lean closer. The more mutinous half of Harry urges him to meet Malfoy halfway while the rational half screams to take a step back. Frozen with indecision, Harry can only swallow thickly and muster, “and what would that be?”

This is apparently what Malfoy was hoping he’d say, because his eyes narrow in victory. “Oh come on,” Malfoy drawls in an innocent tone. “Use that brain of yours, Potter. Or is the blood going elsewhere?”

Aforementioned brain is having a hard time thinking of coherent thoughts. The only thought that Harry can retain is the observation that Malfoy is so close to him that their chests are nearly pressed together. “Er—”

“My apologies, it must’ve been a while since you tried to use your head,” Malfoy murmurs, rapping Harry sharply on the side of his skull. “I mean this one, of course. Allow me to spell it out for you then: I’m bored and I’d like to leave.”

Harry licks his lips absently, trying to gather his thoughts, and is promptly distracted by Malfoy’s gaze flicking down to his mouth. Merlin, he’s never getting out of here alive. “Where to?” he finally manages to croak.

“Depends.” Malfoy stoops until his lips are right next to Harry’s ear. With a sharp nip to Harry’s earlobe, he whispers, “would you rather fuck me in your bed or mine?” 

***

Harry’s lust-muddled brain takes nearly two minutes to register that he is not in Grimmauld Place. It’s the soft plush carpet around his feet that finally gives it away. Detaching himself from Malfoy, who promptly starts marking his neck with nips and bites, Harry looks around.

“This isn’t my place,” he manages breathily, words punctuated by moans as Malfoy sucks at the skin under his jaw.

“Of course not,” Malfoy answers. “Your place is filthy.”

Harry frowns, seconds away from retorting when realizes he’s probably right. “Then why’d you give me a—ah, _fuck_ —a choice?”

“Because you’re a stubborn prat.” Malfoy emphasizes each word with a thrust of his hips, leaving Harry both indignant and more turned on than ever. “Stop talking and come on.”

As Malfoy directs them to what Harry presumes is his bedroom, Harry takes in the flat; there’s a kitchen that looks like it came straight out of a interior design magazine, and a sitting room with chairs probably worth more than his racing broom collection combined. But Malfoy’s bedroom is plainly decorated—still classy, of course, but stark compared to the rooms where guests were welcome. Before he can analyze this, however, Harry’s attention falls on the plush four poster bed pushed against a wall and his fingers falter on his belt buckle.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“You like what you see?” Malfoy, who had been unbuttoning his robes, glances up.

Harry smirks. “That’s one sexy bed,” he says, barely suppressing a grin when Malfoy frowns and looks between his own naked body and the bed. To hide his smile, Harry tosses his dress robes casually over the back of a chair while Malfoy sputters.

“The bed? I’m sorry, should I give you a moment? I’d be happy to wait outside—“

Malfoy’s words are cut off as Harry reaches out and pulls him into a crushing embrace. “Don’t you dare,” he whispers huskily, walking the blond backward until the back of his knees hit the bed. While Malfoy scrambles onto the bed, Harry follows, settling on top of him. Pressing his thigh between his legs, Harry gives an experimental roll of his hips and they both groan in unison.

“Hurry up,” Malfoy urges, bucking upwards.

The hard length sliding against Harry leaves a wet trail but he doesn’t mind, not when he’s doing to same to Malfoy. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Lube?”

Despite the compromising position he’s in, Malfoy still scoffs haughtily. “You’re a wizard, aren’t you?” he taunts, the shakiness in his voice the only indication that he’s not as composed as he seems.

“Shut up, Malfoy. Accio lube—oof!”

Leave it to Draco Malfoy to keep his lube in a glass jar; a glass jar that has just collided painfully with Harry’s temple.

"Very smooth, Potter." Malfoy smirks at him from below, his hair mused and ruffled from Harry's impatient fingers. "Keep this up and maybe I'll come by tomorrow morning."

"Keep this up and I'm leaving," Harry threatens, though he knows he's in no state to leave. Not when Malfoy is laid out so beautifully against the mattress, not when his gray eyes are blown wide with lust; Malfoy's a siren illuminated by the purest rays of sun, beckoning to him from across dark murky waters with songs of pleasure and Harry is the weathered sailor who knows of the dangers and yet can't stop himself from drawing closer, diving deeper...

***

The next morning, Harry awakes with a desperate pressure on his bladder. Cursing under his breath, he stands up so fast that his head spins and his heart pounds—and no, that has nothing to do with the sleeping figure of Draco Malfoy, arm still outstretched like it was still draped over Harry’s waist. Thoughts of the previous night are whirling in his mind as he stumbles into the bathroom. He glances at himself in the mirror while he relieves himself—bruised, scratched, satisfied.

By the time Harry steps out of the bathroom, Malfoy is awake. Eyes still closed, the blond stretches languidly, reminding Harry of a cat. Malfoy’s wand is still on the nightstand so Harry decides it’s safe to approach, though he does so warily just in case Malfoy tries to hex him out of the flat like he does with everyone else.

“Morning,” Harry says slowly, cautiously. He watches as Malfoy stills and tilts his head toward the sound of Harry’s voice. Merlin, his hair is a halo splayed out across the pillow, almost glowing in the few rays of sunlight that pass through the clouds. Harry doesn’t dare move, for fear of startling him.

After a few moments of blissful silence Malfoy lets out a long exhale, though his eyes remain shut. “Are you just going to stare at me, Potter, or were you planning on getting back in bed?”

“Er—“

Harry can almost hear the eye roll as Malfoy pats the mattress beside him and says, “come here.”

He obliges, but perches on the edge of the bed gingerly.

Was this a trap? What if Malfoy got him comfortable and proceeded to hex the living hell out of him? Harry’s wand is across the room in the pocket of his dress robes from last night—if it came down to it, surely Malfoy would get to his wand first before Harry could get to his.

Malfoy’s brows furrow when he doesn’t feel Harry lie down. “What,” he asks flatly.

“I can’t help but notice you haven’t kicked me out yet,” Harry says.

Malfoy hums, eyes still closed. “Incredible powers of observation, Potter.”

“You told me you always kick people out by morning.”

“That’s correct.”

Harry smacks him across the chest. “Malfoy, I’m serious.”

Malfoy mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “I thought he died though” and opens his eyes, glaring at Harry with obvious annoyance. “What’s your problem, Potter? Can’t we just enjoy a nice morning lie in?”

Yes, Harry wants to say. “No,” he says instead. “Not if you’re going to curse me the second I close my eyes.”

The scathing look Malfoy gives him could scare off any lesser man. Still, it takes much of Harry’s willpower not to divert his gaze.

“What,” Harry protests. “You told me yourself that you don't let anyone stay—"

“I know what I said,” Malfoy interrupts grumpily. He pauses for a beat then groans. “Merlin knows how you managed to save the world with no capacity for intelligent thought.” He purses his lips. “Then again, Granger was always the brains of the operation—“

“Granger-Weasley,” Harry corrects automatically. Then, indignant, “hey!”

With a huff like Harry has asked a huge favor, Malfoy sits up. The sheets pool around his lap and for the first time Harry sees the bruises and scratches scattered along Malfoy’s pale torso. He can't help the blush that rises within him as his gaze roves over the man's body—so much of last night had been desperate, frantic, that he'd never really gotten a chance to admire how stunning Malfoy looked, especially this early in the morning with sex-tousled hair and sleepy eyes.

"My eyes are up here, Potter."

Harry snaps his gaze to Malfoy's face, embarrassed, just in time to see Malfoy's eyes hurriedly snap upwards. He registers a faint blotchy blush on Malfoy's cheeks though, and the sight of it wears down his guard just a tad. "I could say the same to you, Malfoy," he teases affectionately.

Harry blinks rapidly. He's teasing Malfoy? _Affectionately_? A charged silence fills the room as the two men gaze at each other, though Malfoy seems unaware of the inner turmoil in Harry's mind.

Malfoy breaks the silence first. "If I promise not to hex you, will you relax? Not everyone's trying to kill you, you know."

"Old habits," Harry admits. "When someone tells me they have a habit of hexing people out of their apartment and I find myself in that exact predicament, I can't help but be a bit wary."

"Look." Malfoy turns and focuses on picking at his cuticles, a forced air of casual disinterest. "I only hex people because I don't want to deal with them again. Good lay, bad fuck, it doesn't matter—the people I sleep with are one-time visitors because I want them to be, and they usually refuse to leave unless I force them to. They seem to think one night together implies I'm interested in pursuing anything longer than a quick fuck. So they get clingy. And I hex them when they don't take 'no' for an answer."

The cogs in Harry's brain are slowly grinding into place. "But you're not hexing me."

"Yes, very good," Malfoy responds in a tone reserved for an exasperated parent of a young child who's finally understood a basic concept.

"And you've not yet forced me to leave."

"Should I write a letter of recommendation to the Minister, Potter? You should be promoted with this intellect of yours."

Harry ignores the jab—Malfoy's cheeks are now bright red and his barbs have no real heat in them. It's almost like... Harry's chest tightens when he realizes—Malfoy's being open. Genuine. _Vulnerable_.

"Let me see if I have this right." Harry shifts so that he's facing Malfoy, though the blond still refuses to look him in the eye. He tries to keep his tone gentle and kind, like the one he'd use to speak with the children at the scene of a crime. "You've neither hexed nor forced me out because I'm not being clingy?"

Malfoy swallows. "Not quite," he mutters. Like he can't control it, Malfoy's limbs begin to wrap around himself until he's sitting with his knees hugged tightly into his chest. Harry's seen this before—it's a defensive position for someone's who sharing something uncomfortable; he's seen this plenty of times when questioning witnesses.

"Then"—Harry's heart beats harder, because if it isn't his first theory, then it can only be his second theory (or his third, but he tries not to get his hopes up)—"you haven't kicked me out or hexed me because I haven't implied that I'm interested in anything longer than a one-time lay?"

Malfoy shakes his head, pauses, then asks quietly, "are you?"

"That's—how is that—no, you can't dodge my question with another question."

The blond stills and doesn't answer.

The third theory then, he decides, and prays to any deity who's listening that his hunch is anywhere close to being correct. "You haven't kicked me out or hexed me because _you're_ interested in something longer than a one-time lay."

That gets a reaction. Malfoy spins so fast that the sheets become further entangled around his body, wrapping him up in a cocoon of soft cotton. With his back to Harry, body wound so tightly into a ball, he huffs a bitter laugh. "Congratulations, Harry fucking Potter solves yet another mystery."

Oh.

It's like he's been hit with a brick wall, not unlike the one he and Ron crashed into their second-year at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. It takes him a second for his ears to stop ringing and another few seconds to remember to breathe.

He's never been in this situation before; years of schooling and Auror training have never prepared him for a case like this. Looking at Malfoy's back—covered in scratches and red marks—Harry's mind whirls with possible next steps. The last thing he wants to do is offend him or make him regret opening up, so he decides to equal the playing field.

"Well," he says after a tense pause. His voice cracks but he pushes on. "It's only fair I answer your question."

Malfoy's head twitches like he wants to turn back and look at Harry, but his face remains out of sight.

"You'd asked me if I was interested in anything longer than a one-time lay?" Harry reminds him. "My honest answer is yes."

Instantaneously Malfoy's shoulders drop from their hunched position by his neck. He turns and stares incredulously with unreadable eyes.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Harry continues. He's unable to stop a gentle smile from lifting the corners of his lips. "Not when you're notorious for, you know, your flings. But since you said it first..."

Malfoy's brows furrow stubbornly. "In my defense, I didn't say it. You deduced—forced it out of me."

With a soft laugh, Harry raises both hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. No matter. I'm just glad I forced you to say anything at all."

They stare at each other again; with each silent moment that passes, Harry tries to read Malfoy's eyes. He'd always thought gray eyes were intriguing (although now that he thinks about it, maybe he's always just thought Malfoy's eyes were—are—intriguing) and now, he's even more confident that gray is the most beautiful color eyes could be.

This time, Harry cracks first.

"I can't tell what you're thinking," he admits.

Malfoy gives him a look. "Just because I'm potentially interested in seeing you again doesn't guarantee a relationship."

"I know."

"And if you ever forget that, I'm going to hex you."

"Understood."

"Okay. Now will you finally come here? I don't get to lie in very often and you've already deprived me of a good portion of one."

Harry smiles and lies down.

It feels like breathing in fresh air after a lifetime spent indoors, and when Malfoy wraps his arms around his waist, entangles their legs, and presses his face into the junction of Harry's neck and shoulder, it feels like he's home.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are very much appreciated!! 
> 
> let me know how I did on my first hp fic :)


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